Classic Poem

In our hands the workbroom,
the dust of the road.
Inside, our lovely truths
keep opening and opening.

Age after age we wept
tears of servitude.
We offered up our souls,
scorning the flesh.

Pledged to the fierce bed
of arrows, oath of the poor,
in the ecstasy of enduring
we're immersed in God.

We made labor our friend
and searched in the darkness.
We chose that God who says,
In the darkness I become a lamp.

Believing human feet are clean—
such is our dharma.
God kissed our hands and laughed.
To serve is our destiny.

Our Lord is the friend of the poor
with hands to wipe our tears.
Love is our holy essence,
Disgrace our fall.